A Book of Spirits and Thieves - Morgan Rhodes Page 0,3
curious to see what her aunt had sent. Crys felt it’d been forever since she’d seen or talked to Jackie, who lived in Europe most of the time, exploring and having adventures and romances and getting into trouble like the free spirit she was. Jackie hadn’t graduated high school, either, and her aunt was the coolest and smartest person Crys had ever known. She’d received her education from living life, not from reading textbooks.
“And you’ve sent us . . .” Crys pulled the object out of the packaging, her enthusiasm quickly fading. “. . . a book. Hooray.”
The book did look very old—which meant it might be valuable on the secondhand market. That was one point in its favor. Its cover was smooth brown leather. Handmade, by the feel of it. It was the size of an old atlas and as thick as a dictionary. As heavy as one, too. It had cost Jackie a small fortune in postage to send this overseas.
Affixed to the cover was a metal relief of a bronze bird, its wings spread in flight. Crys traced it with her index finger.
There was no title, and nothing was written on the weathered spine.
A piece of paper fell out as Crys opened the cover. She snatched it up off the worn hardwood floor.
This is it, Jules. I finally found it. Grandma would be proud. Keep it safe, and I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. —J
Crys opened the book. It appeared to be a one-of-a-kind text, similar to the ones ancient monks slaved over all their lives, with decorative calligraphy, careful penmanship, and intricate paintings. The pages felt as fragile as onionskin, but the words inside were crisp and clear, the illustrations of flowers and plants, green landscapes, robed figures, and unfamiliar furry animals as sharp as if they’d been rendered this week.
The language, however . . . Crys frowned down at it. It wasn’t recognizable to her. Definitely not Latin. Or Italian. Or Chinese.
The alphabet was odd, made up of curls and swashes instead of discernible letters. There were no breaks between words; the text looked like lines of gibberish and nonsense rather than an actual language. But it was all rendered with a fine hand as if it might make perfect sense to someone, somewhere.
Some of the text was printed in gold ink, some in black. The gold ink shimmered even in the most shadowy areas of the overstuffed shop as Crys walked it back to the children’s section, easily navigating the maze-like shelves without looking up.
Becca was there, on her knees, sliding the new books into place after noting them in the open ledger beside her. Crys glanced around at the shelves, which were painted pink and blue and green in this area, rather than the standard brown and black in the rest of the store. Kid-sized chairs and a small sofa, both upholstered in bright polka-dotted fabric, were there for reading comfort. A decade ago, on the wall next to the large, round window that made this alcove the brightest part of the shop, her father had painted a mural of a fantasy land with a golden castle and two princesses who looked a great deal like Becca and Crys. The painted words Imagination is Magic curved around the fluffy white clouds in the bright blue sky.
Daniel Hatcher used to organize and host readings every Saturday in this kids’ nook, free for all children and parents. He always made sure there were drinks and snacks available. Local children’s authors would visit and talk to the kids and sign books. And this had also been the place Crys and Becca had lounged for hours in their childhood, spending time together reading and discussing book after book after book.
Times had changed. The nook, once a place of magic and fairy tales, now looked weathered and old. The only ghosts to be found back here were memories of a different time.
“What’s that?” Becca asked, drawing Crys out of her reverie.
“Good question. Jackie sent it. I don’t know what it is, but I hope it’s worth big bucks.”
Becca stood up and brushed some dust off her jeans. “Let me see it.” Crys handed it over, and Becca’s eyes widened as she took it. “Wow. It’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. I wonder how old it is.”
“Very old,” Crys replied. “That’s my professional opinion.”
Becca sat down on the small sofa and began to carefully flip through it. “I wonder what language this is.”